Impromptu
by phollie
Summary: They've both got different names dripping off their tongues anyway. Leo/Vincent. M. Sexual content.


Mmm, teh squick that is Leo/Vincent. I scare myself with how hot I think this pairing is, not to mention how much devious fun I had while writing this. Someone call a doctor.

I don't own anything. Lyrics are Jem.

* * *

><p><strong>.impromptu+<strong>

/

_[i'm sorry, so sorry_

_i'm sorry it's like this_

_i'm sorry, so sorry_

_i'm sorry we do this]_

/

There's something in Leo's eyes tonight that reminds Vincent of death. It's something cold and searing, something unforgiving and all-swallowing, and it's fixed directly on his own reflection.

He's been doing this quite often lately. It's always at night, just before the toll of the twelfth hour, that dark seam that separates one day from the next. After having sat before the fire for an unprecedented amount of time, Leo will shrug off whatever blanket or coat that Vincent had draped over his feeble shoulders, stand up without a word, and drift like a lost ghost into the powder room. The way he walks conjures accidental comparisons to ghosts on its own; his trousers are always at least four inches too long, so he appears to float along the floorboards what with the curious way he shuffles and slides. Vincent, of course, always follows him, because that's what a good servant is supposed to do (at least, that's what Gilbert has always done with that stupid Vessalius boy). From there, Leo will stand before the grand mirror with his arms hanging lank by his sides and his spine pin-straight, and he'll part his bangs so that his eyes are exposed; after having been concealed for so long, it's almost an act of lewdness to see them bare and open to the world, as if akin to the wet, secretive cove between a lady's thighs.

And then, Leo will stare. Sometimes it's for a minute, sometimes for hours at a time; but that look of dread tinged with traces of a self-loathing that even Vincent could never rival always unfolds itself on its own agenda. Even with just the dim glow of a lonely candle serving as their only light, Vincent never fails to pick up on it the moment it unravels in the black depths of the boy's eyes; after all, he's an attentive servant, a _caring_ servant, never letting anything slip past his sleek stare. (Does Gilbert watch over Oz with such fierceness, he wonders? What horrible promises have they made each other? What death wishes have they sank their teeth into?)

Vincent never touches him during these turns. He stands in the doorway, cradled in the flickering shadows jumping off the walls, and watches Leo with the quiet resoluteness of a man that has learned with an alarming efficiency what it means to become one's second skin. His comfort lies in his silence, he knows, not in his words. Vincent won't push him for noise because noise isn't needed; everything he needs to know is all in the boy's black-death eyes.

But something is different tonight. The air surrounding Leo is tense and tight, and his face is drawn and pale, and his hands are clenched into trembling knots atop the sink. The thin line of Vincent's brow knits into a concerned stitch, but he doesn't move from his spot just yet; instead, he simply observes the shapes and angles of the boy's face, the round planes of it that haven't quite left him at his young age. The soft point of his chin, the narrow bridge of his nose, the frowning pout of his mouth; Vincent drinks all of this in, never letting a single detail go astray.

Even in these moments when he's dipped in such ugly hatred, the boy is still terrifyingly beautiful.

Vincent steps a single stride's length closer to him. He must still keep his distance; he must not press him for noise. However, he lets himself speak as softly as possible, his voice breathing out onto the trepid silence like a footprint on fresh snow. "You look tense, my lord."

The observation is an innocent one, but Leo's eyes flash in the mirror and land on Vincent's reflection with such sharpness that he almost takes a step back. He doesn't, though; he stands his ground and makes his face a perfect portrait of calm, of understanding. He is fast learning that he must be careful, so very careful with this skittish creature, lest he become entangled in that plagued glare.

Leo's knuckles whiten on the ledge of the sink. "Tense?" he hisses. "'My lord'?" A hateful laugh squeezes out of his clenched teeth, and he bows his head until Vincent can't see his face anymore. "Go away, Vincent. I already feel sick enough, I don't need _you_ adding to it."

Vincent smiles, not stung by his words but enthralled by them. This boy's coldness, his hatred – it's fascinating. He takes a step back, but doesn't let Leo leave his sight. He never will. "As you wish."

But this doesn't seem to assauge Leo's tension in the slightest. If anything, it only heightens it, much to Vincent's surprise. He releases a horrid sort of growl in the back of his throat as he whips around, wild hair flying about his face, and shouts, "Don't be so casual about it! God! It's like you don't even bother to put up a fight against me at all!"

Vincent laughs goodnaturedly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe. "A fight? Against _you_? Why on earth would I do that, my lord?"

"S-stop _calling_ me that! It's such a stupid term, I hate it!" Leo slams his back against the sink, gripping at his hair and yanking at it, as if the pain will bring him back down from his own madness (Vincent has been there countless times before, knows that desperation more intimately than any feeling imaginable).

Vincent tilts his head, puzzled. "Oh? Then what would you like me to call you? Anything you wish…"

Leo jerks his head up, and for a brief moment, Vincent catches a glance at his eyes as his hair flies up out of his face. He doesn't think he'll ever be sobered by their darkness, but even more so by the otherworldly lights glowing eerily from the depths of the Abyss. Who _could_ ever become accustomed to such a terrific sight?

"I'm _Leo_!" Leo screams. "Just call me _Leo_, my _name_ and nothing else!" His voice cracks at the tail end of his words, and he curls deep into himself, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and shaking violently. "I'm not your lord, I'm not your master, I'm not…I'm not _Glen_…"

At this, he breaks into a freefall of loud, wailing sobs that ring and echo like the cries of ten thousand ghosts, the acoustics of the small bathroom forcing them to pile atop one another until they form a crippled chain of wrenching weeps. All thoughts of not touching him pushed aside, Vincent is kneeling before him in a second and wrapping himself around that small, quaking body crumpled up on the marble floor. He's done this so many times – holding him as he cries – that he's memorised this pattern to a tee, knows exactly what will come next and not caring to stop it before it does. Leo only proves this flawlessly when he releases a snarl worthy of the most sinister of chains and sinks his nails into Vincent's neck deep enough to draw blood. Vincent, all too prepared, releases him and falls back onto his elbows as Leo beats his fists against him, not hard enough to actually do any damage but enough to pour out the festering rage that Vincent knows has been feeding off of his sanity bit by bit every day. And he just lies back and lets him.

But once more – something is different tonight. And now, under the threatless threat of Leo's mediocre attack, he knows just what it is.

Vincent catches the boy's wrist in the middle of another flailing punch and holds it high above his head. Leo glowers down at him, but doesn't try to worm out of Vincent's grip; in fact, his arm goes limp, and his trapped hand flops helplessly as it's slowly lowered down to rest atop Vincent's chest. He's hiccupping from the force of his crying, but has otherwise gone quiet as he holds onto Vincent's cravat with the same frantic need that a dying man would hold onto his last breath.

Vincent will not push for noise, oh no; but he will push for _this._

"Go ahead," he says gently, tipping his head back to offer up his throat. "I won't stop you. Do whatever you wish."

A fresh stream of tears falls like rain from Leo's eyes. They drip onto Vincent's lips and slip onto his tongue. Salt. _Yes_. "Whatever you wish," he whispers again. "Use me."

He'll pretend that this is how it's supposed to happen: Leo is supposed to seize him by the shoulders and pull him atop him until Vincent's body all but blankets his; Leo is supposed to gasp and whine and cry into the curve where Vincent's neck meets his shoulder as he's pushed into with the fluid grace of a man that has done this _so many times_ before, but never with a body so meager, so impressionable; Vincent is supposed to move in effortless, masterful sweeps as one hand grips the doorframe to brace himself, to give him as much leverage as possible against Leo's shivering hips, his frigid bones; they're both supposed to see black stars erupting at the corners of their vision when the crash finally comes, and the crash is one blink away from blinding, one mournful moan and breathless shout away from utter soundlessness.

Yes, Vincent can pretend with all his might, because this was bound to happen. It makes no difference. It doesn't break what was already broken to begin with.

They've both got different names dripping off their tongues anyway.


End file.
